Batfamily Christmas
by Nobodyknowsmenow
Summary: Four ficlets for Christmas. Bruce, Dick, Jason and Tim. Merry Christmas to all!
1. Chapter 1

In reading over these drabbles, I realize that there is a common theme- home for Christmas.

Please excuse any similarities these drabbles may bear to one another.

Own nothing; earned nothing; enjoyed it all!!

**Bruce**

Bruce would never tell anyone, but he loved to spend Christmas Eve and morning on the Watchtower. There was no monitor duty, per se; Superman didn't have the heart to make anyone stay up in the tower alone on Christmas. Bruce went of his own volition, as a double check, and for a little peace. He could look at the earth, and from this distance, he couldn't see the filth, the hate, the greed and sorrow ripping it apart.

From the Watchtower, it is a beautiful, serene ball, spinning to its own music in space.

And in a way, he's happy, as he watches over the planet from above. He's alone this day, and he likes that too. It's quiet, and he can be at peace, at least for a little while.

"_I heard the bells, on Christmas day…"_ he murmured. _"Their old… familiar… carols play."_ He hummed. _"And mild, and sweet, the words repeat. Of peace on earth, good will, to men."_

He thought how, as the day had come, the belfries of all Christendom had rolled along the unbroken song of peace on earth good will to men.

"Mommy, Daddy, it's Christmas, it's CHRISTMAS!" Bruce roared, pounding down the hallway towards his parents room. He shoved the door open and leapt headlong onto the bed. "I was good, wasn't I? At least, most of the year. I tried, and mommy says it's the thought that counts and do you think Santa left me anything?"

His father laughed, a joyful, rolling sound, and his mother's soft alto chimed in. "Of course, Bruce. Of course…"

_And in despair, he bowed his head 'There is no peace on earth, he said, for hate is strong, and it mocks the song of peace on earth, good will to men._

Bruce stared, unseeing, at the Christmas tree and his full stocking. The lights blurred, and the whirring of the mechanical ornaments made his head ache.

Leslie smiled at him. "Come on, now, Bruce, open your presents from Santa!"

He looked at her, his dark eyes blank. "I was bad." He growled. "I shouldn't have presents."

"Bruce, sweetie…"

"Don't LIE to me!" He shouted at her, angry, but not understanding why. "It's not true, none of it's true! Christmas is all one big fat lie! I don't want ANY of this! I want…" he ran from the room, weeping. Alfred and Leslie soberly gathered the toys, still wrapped, and donated them to Gotham orphanage.

_And then the bells tolled, loud and deep, God is not dead, nor doth he sleep! The wrong shall fail, the right prevail, with peace on earth, good will to men._

Dick Grayson bounced into Bruce's bedroom. "Merry Christmas!" he cheered, executing a handspring, and flip. "Come on, Bruce, it's CHRISTMAS! And we've gotta go to the orphanage, and eat dinner and open presents and you'll love my presents for you…" Bruce smiled as he listened to his child's chatter.

God had taken his parents, and while he was still bitter about that, God had in turn given him this sparkling child, this wonderful boy to share life and Christmas with.

Who knew? Days like this, he believed that even Gotham could be saved…

So ringing, singing on it's way, the world revolved from night to day, a voice, a rhyme, a chant sublime, of peace on earth, good will to men…

"Bruce?" Clark called. "What're you doing up here?"

Bruce turned to his friend, smiling a little. "Nothing." He said.

"Come on, Alfred and Ma are fighting over who carves the turkey." The grin lit up Clark's whole face. "It's going to be a good Christmas."

"Yes." Bruce agreed. "Yes, it is."

…_peace on earth, good will to men…_


	2. Chapter 2

Nightwing crouched on the Bludhaven rooftop, staring at the starless sky. Slush fell from the heaven, and below him, the city lay not in solemn stillness, but in debauchery and hatred and malice.

He sighed, his breath hanging in the freezing air. Christmas Eve, and the church bells rang for Mass. Not the Midnight Mass, that wouldn't be safe in this heaven-forsaken city. He closed his eyes. Listened to the bells.

God would understand, saving lives was more important than Mass.

His mother would understand.

He scrubbed at his face mask, wearily. When had he last slept? He licked his chapped lips, looking longingly at his thermos, empty since five o-clock, and the hot chocolate hadn't been that good, anyway.

The wind moaned around the cornices of the building, and he shivered. Gotham had never seemed so far away, or so inviting. He snorted. Gotham. Inviting. He felt like the most pitiful person on the planet, but somehow, that old city was inviting and safe, to him at least.

He remembered, as a little boy, snuggling beneath Batman's cape, the older man's warmth gentle and reassuring. He remembered cookies after patrol, the hug before bed, the Christmas tree sparkling with lights and glowing with popcorn and cranberry strands.

His head bowed to his chest, lost in reverie, lost to time. So lost, in fact, he almost didn't register the footfalls behind him

"Nightwing." A soft voice in his ear, and he smelled hot chocolate. A warm cup was pressed into his hands, and he sipped, shaking. "Easy, you're pretty cold." Batman rasped, and he nodded. "You know better than to fall asleep when it's ten below!"

"Wasn't… wasn't asleep." He managed from between clattering teeth. "Just… thinking."

Batman didn't say anything, just shifted back to watch Dick's face, listening.

"Listen to the bells." Dick breathed. They rang bravely over the city, Mass was over, caroling their song of peace and hope over the sounds of the cities suffering.

"_Sfant lacas, tainic lacas_…" he murmured, his voice rough with cold. His father had sung that song, in Rom, every Christmas.

"Silent night, holy night…" Bruce's voice was everything Batman's could never be, melodic, warm, soothing. Bruce sighed. "Come on."

"What?"

"Nobody's coming tonight."

"You don't know that."

"I do." Batman replied. "They're Italian mob. They're at Mass. Tomorrow, they're going to open presents with their Family. Which is where you should be."

"But I-"

"Come on." Bruce said again. "Come with me. To Gotham, we'll go to Mass, and then we'll go home."

"I…" Dick struggled for a moment, and then realized. Bruce wanted him home? Batman had left Gotham to come get him, personally? Bruce would go to Mass with him?

Bruce wanted him?

Who was he to tell Bruce no?


	3. Chapter 3

Jason stared out the window of his apartment. The heater was broken again, damn it, and he was cold. He hugged his mug of coffee closer, sipping at it, ignoring the pain in his empty belly.

Little low on funds at the moment, but he'd live. Always had.

He turned away from the horrible window of hopelessness, to look at his apartment. Bare, except the mattress in the corner, the TV on the end table, a brokendown La-Z-Boy, and his computer. He sighed.

Merry Christmas, he sighed internally, trying not to think of the Christmas he had spent at the Manor.

Ah, what the hell? He could REMEMBER happiness. Maybe he could remember being warm and full, too.

He closed his eyes, slipping back to the days of a Wild Robin.

He smiled, smelling the cookies Alfred had made in his memory. His young eyes stared at the tree at more presents than he had ever gotten in his whole life put together. And they were for him, no one else. He could keep them.

He saw his older brother laughing with him as they threw snowballs at Bruce, who laughed, because, damn it; Jason could always get him to laugh. Dick was his favorite, but Jason made him laugh.

Bruce rubbed a hand through Jason's hair, hugging him, telling him Merry Christmas. Bruce smelled good, like the cookies Alfred made, like the tree they'd cut down together from the woods in back. He smiled at Jason, his eyes warm and kind.

When no one was looking, he touched the warm sweater Alfred had given him. It was a rich, warm red color, not washed out and icky, not one of Dick's hand-me-downs, but his, really, truly his. It was soft, and it smelled nice.

There was a new game boy, with games. He had never had anything like that before. Dick showed him how to play it, and he beat Dick. They laughed.

A knock echoed through the quiet apartment.

Jason whimpered, torn from his memories. Who the hell would bother him?

He took his gun out and opened the door, and stared.

The Replacement Robin was standing in the hallway. Behind him, Dick grinned at him, laughing, Bruce stood to the side, his eyes warm and kind. Even from where he stood, with the stale smells of inner city Gotham roiling around him, he could smell the pine and Alfred's cookies.

In that one second, it was as if he was still Robin, and everything was all right.

Jason wanted nothing more than to ask them in, nothing more than to celebrate the birth of hope, but he couldn't let them in. Couldn't let Bruce feel the cold in his room, let the Replacement see his mean bed, couldn't let Dick see his bare cupboards. He didn't want their pity.

He didn't NEED their compassion.

"Come on, Jay!" Dick said, swinging an arm around Jason's shoulders, hand threading into his hair… Dick always liked to touch... "Alfred sent us, dinner's waiting."

"We're having turkey and mashed potatoes and gravy and apple pie." Tim informed him seriously.

Jason hesitated. He could step back and shut the door and remember who he used to be, or he could shut the door and go with them, and forget his misery for a little while, and start making someone new.

Someone with a little hope.

"Please, son. Come home with me." Bruce rumbled gently, and Jason looked at him.

It had been a long time since Bruce had said that the first time, and once again, Jason found himself powerless to resist.


	4. Chapter 4

Tim opened his window and swung inside. His parents should be home in an hour or so, back from God-knew-where.

Christmas eve had been, as usual, hell in Gotham. Not that anyone was out and about- rumor had it Joker LIKED the Christmas meal they served in Arkham, and so planned his breakout accordingly- but because it was so damned cold and depressing.

He shivered under his blankets. Mom and Dad would be home in the morning, he would have French toast (he'd make it) and they would open gifts. He thanked God that he had his parents. He'd seen Dick's mouth set tonight, looking at all the billboards for 'Christmas with Family' and he knew Dick was smelling sawdust.

He glanced into starlit lenses in a dark cowl, and saw pearls. .

Tim fell asleep.

He woke up at seven, excited for no particular reason. Christmas! He thought, gleefully, forgetting that he was fourteen, and too old for that.

He pounded down the stairs, running into the kitchen. French toast. Oh, yes… what?

There was a note on the table from the housekeeper.

Tim- 

_Your parents called, they can't make it home tonight, there was a layover in London. They said to go ahead and open your presents._

_Have a good day._

Tim set the paper down, numb.

He looked at the pile of shining presents, and realized that the one thing he wanted he couldn't have.

The happiness he had felt earlier slipped from him, leaving a cold empty husk. He walked up the stairs to his room, and lay down across his bed.

He lay there for an hour, before getting up and going back downstairs.

He opened his gifts carefully, nervous fingers folding the paper perfectly into little squares after he was done. It was pretty paper, shiny and colorful. He liked the feel of it.

The gifts mocked him, and he piled them to the side, with the little stack of paper next to them.

He didn't know what he'd gotten. Found that he didn't really care. They were only things, and he didn't need anymore of those.

Bruce and Dick were orphans. They had seen their parents die, been left alone in the night.

Tim was an orphan, too. His parents were alive, but they had left him alone.


End file.
